Avant-Tarde: Retardist Art Collective

The Drive-In

The word on the street was if you took her to the drive-in and bought her some Reeses peanut butter cups, she'd give you a hand job. Not on my time she wouldn't. I ain't got time for hand jobs anymore. That's kid shit. Baby shit even, nasty yellow-green floating in training potties. yeah, fuck that shit. Fuck that shit to hell. The anger is understandable. What isn't so understandable to me is the apathy. Complete and utter apathy. She told me apathy wasn't the solution to my problems. But she was the kind of person who believed in things. Bee stings, chicken wings, jingling a ling fling green beans. Though the men were adamantly protesting the vegans, they should not have injured the poor vegetables. What did the green beans ever do to you? Oh, nothing. They only fixed nitrogen into the soil allowing for greater fertility and an abundance of crops that fed Hitler's army. No, I mean as a concept. Brah!